Now, he came to heel without instruction, poised to move on or turn, depending on my signal.
Problem was, I hadn’t a clue.
Had Greer seen me through the steam clouding the window or the clusters of people crowding the narrow sidewalk? She might have spotted me ten minutes earlier, when we first walked by. Why was she in the Market this morning? The FBI office is way down on Third Avenue. She could have found a cup of coffee a lot closer, and without getting wet.
I’d thought, this morning when Nate dropped me off, that she was watching me. But there was no reason for that, was there?
Paranoia is not usually one of my vices.
Don’t be silly, Pep. She’s new in town and taking the day to explore the city.
Right. She’s got a day off the day after new evidence surfaces in a major case the field office she’s just joined has been unable to solve for three years.
No. Special Agent Meg Greer was in the Market on this soggy Saturday for a reason. A reason other than enjoying a taste of Seattle’s famous coffee. Since she had no reason to watch me, she had to be watching someone else. Or meeting someone. Did it have to do with the special operation Tag had mentioned?
That had to be it.
I left the cover of the coffee line, Arf at my side, and glanced at the window. Saw Greer and let a pleasant expression of recognition cross my face. Waved and kept going, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
At the piroshky bakery, I held the door for a woman on her way out, the hot, yeasty aroma kicking my salivary glands into gear. The sweet treats were tempting—their poppy seed cinnamon rolls are simply fab, and when doughnuts die and go to heaven, they hope to come back as cream cheese vatrushka topped with marionberries.
If you still want one later... The stalling tactic usually works. Besides, we had half a tray of cookies back at the shop, although Tag had put a dent in them.
I’d ordered a mix of the classics—potato and cheese, beef and onion—and modern variations with spinach and chicken curry. They were boxed up and ready to go, and Arf and I were back on the street in no time.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to know who Greer was meeting. I detoured back to Starbucks and in my most casual spy manner, glanced inside. She was gone.
No sign of her on the street, either. Didn’t matter. If she wanted to find me, she knew where to look. I opened the box and slipped out an egg and spinach piroshky, eating as I walked. It might not be traditional, but it hit the spot.
The Spice Shop was jammed. I should have guessed the threat of rain wouldn’t slow people down. My first week on the job, two years ago, a near-cyclone hit. Though it rained heavily, we were spared the flooding and power outages the forecasters had predicted, and most Seattleites went about their business, damp but undeterred.
“To your bed,” I told Arf and he wove between the humans to his hideout. I delivered the box of piroshky to the nook, ditched my coat, and grabbed my apron.
“The recipe calls for Turkish bay, absolutely do not use California bay,” a customer asked me. “What’s the difference? Why the dire warning?”
“Cookbook drama,” I replied. “California bay, laurus australas, is more intense. Save it for dishes that cook quickly. For a soup or a stew, you want Turkish bay, laurus nobilis. It gives stock that rich, warm flavor. Our bouquet garni uses crushed Turkish bay for just that reason.”
“Laurus nobilis,” she said. “Sounds so regal.”
I opened two jars and showed her the leaves. “Same color and basic shape, but the California leaves are longer and narrower. I’d offer a sample, but dried bay has about as much flavor as the inside of a cereal box. It needs the heat of cooking to release its potential.”
“Sold,” she said. “I trust you.”
Behind the counter, I weighed and bagged the bay leaves. The customer added a tin of bouquet garni and several other blends to her shopping basket. Inches away, Arf snored softly, one back foot twitching, as if he were running in his dreams.
“That’s a lot of cayenne,” I said when the next customer gave me her order.
“I mix it into honey and warm water every morning,” she replied. “Keeps my blood pressure down.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. We stay away from medical advice, since none of us has any formal training, but we happily sell cayenne, turmeric, and garlic to customers with medicinal purposes in mind.
Late afternoon, a lull hit. I settled into the nook with the last of the piroshky, and wondered if Kristen and Eric had succeeded in storming the hospital’s gates. I slid my phone out of my apron pocket and sent Kristen a text asking about Maddie. Other questions ricocheted around my brain. Who found her? Who called the police? The Montlake business district is only a block long; surely people would be worried; surely they’d be talking. No matter what their opinion on the redevelopment Maddie proposed, they had to be worried. When anything happens in the Market, we all rally around each other.
My phone buzzed with Kristen’s reply. ICU. Family only.
I thumbed back. Would they tell you anything? Did you see Tim?
Dot dot dot, as she read and answered. Saw Tim for a minute. No visitors. Still in a coma but he’s optimistic.
Though Kristen
